Tis the Season
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Lestrade hated Christmas. And it was because of the stupid Secret Santa ordeal between the Yard and the Government. Mystrade. G.


**Title: **"'Tis the Season"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Lestrade/Mycroft  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock__  
><em>**Word Count: **_~1,700_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>_K+_  
><strong><br>A/N: Just a little Christmas drabble. It probably is the worst, but nothing too special. Don't expect something fluffy, although the end is a bit fluff.**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Lestrade hated Christmas. It usually meant that someone would die—either by their own hand or someone's jealous one. But that wasn't the main reason why he hated it, oh no. There was a Secret Santa program between the Yard and the Government, for some reason, and it's been in place for many years. For the most part, he'd get the women perfume and that'd be the end of it. He'd fight the crowds for a stupid bottle of perfume for someone he rarely associates with, and then get a rude "thanks" for the gesture.

But this year, this one year, he got someone he kept in touch with, much to his discretion. He opened the little piece of paper and read "Mycroft Holmes, British Government". He would be lying if he didn't do a small groan once done reading the name. He didn't _just_ have to handle with the one nuisance, no. He had to come across the second nuisance through the brother. "This is my brother, Mycroft. Don't dwell on introductions too long; he'll find himself moaning and groaning over a small headache."

It's not that Lestrade hated the man—he was handsome for his age—but he was difficult to work with all the time. The most daunting tasks were to be accomplished under his rule, even though they made no sense for the Yard to complete them. But Lestrade would see that snarky smirk of his creep on his face and bid him a good day while walking away, rain or shine. He wanted nothing to do with Lestrade but business, and it made Lestrade wonder if he was even approachable to someone in public.

So with his present in hand, he figured out a way to get in and out as quick as possible. He'd stash the present under the little Christmas tree on the table (which was always surrounded by the Government officials), grab his—which he wished was already under the tree—and then make a quick dash out the door. He hated talking to these big shots; they were always so condescending. They talked to him as if his unit was the worst in the world while the Government was always the greatest thing to grace Britain. He sighed and started to make his way through the crowd.

People didn't spend their time trying to get his attention. Maybe Donovan or Anderson mentioned something, and he'd have a quick chat with them, but as far as the Government giving him some attention? He'd take his chance talking to Anderson for an hour before handling their incessant chatter. When he reached the tree, he awkwardly placed the present under the tree. What did he get Mycroft? He wondered if someone out there questioned the gift, as it was long and very awkwardly wrapped.

It was a little joke him and Sherlock shared, one that was very rare with Sherlock. He mentioned it to Lestrade one afternoon while working a case. "Honestly, I haven't a clue what Mycroft does with all those official secrets for Britain," he said, as Lestrade asked him about his job. "I'm surprised he doesn't just have an umbrella next to him so all his papers are in one place." It was one of the rare times he actually saw Sherlock smirk at his own remark. Lestrade just raised an eyebrow, then went back to work.

But it was true: he got Mycroft an umbrella. He wondered if he would actually get the joke, or take offense. It was probably a reason why he was going to make a dash out of there. With a card attached to the paper, he rested the umbrella on the table and looked around the gifts for his. Dimmock, Molly, Donovan, Anderson—Lestrade! He quickly snatched the gift from the table and turned to leave. Soon enough, he was outside.

While he felt bad for leaving so soon, he had good reasons. Well, to him, anyway. He stood under the canopy of the hotel (he always wondered why it was at this one specific hotel out of the way of everyone's evening, but he never asked) and looked at the gift. It was in a box. Well, that was nice. "'To Lestrade, from your Secret Santa,'" he whispered. Eager, he tore away the paper. White box. Well, it was large enough for clothing, and too big for anything special, like jewelry. He leaned against a pole of the canopy and slowly opened the box—he wasn't sure what to expect.

Something black was inside. He raised an eyebrow and felt it—was that nylon? It had a synthetic feel to it. He placed the box on the ground and grabbed a piece of the clothing, lifting it from the inside. When he held it out, he knew what it was. It was a black jacket. It was simple, nothing fancy about it, but he was a little surprised. Who would buy him a jacket? In earlier years, he'd get ties (which he never wore) and really nice pens (ones that would always somehow get lost in a week). But a jacket?

As he scanned the jacket, he saw a little white envelope sticking out of one of the pockets. A card, he thought—like his for Mycroft. He placed the jacket back in the box as he slipped the envelope from the pocket. He wondered what someone would say to him. 'Cheers to another year of work', he mused. He tore the envelope open and looked inside; a white card. Why was everything white? He didn't delve on the thought long as he opened the card.

"'Turn around,'" he whispered. Lestrade closed his eyes. Oh great, he thought, I'm going to be the one dying tonight. He turned his head and noticed a tall man, pinstripe suit fitting him to a T, leaning against the umbrella Lestrade got—he blinked. Well, that was a little shock. Lestrade noticed the smirk Mycroft had on his face as he held out a little card in his hands. Oh.

"'To keep all your little secrets under one location,'" the voice commented. Lestrade wondered if that was irritation or humor in his voice, but he decided against asking. The man looked up from the card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he remarked. Lestrade felt a little uncomfortable—for one thing, how did Mycroft know he was out there? Or, for that matter, _would_ be out there? "You seem to always rush out of these little junctions, and I cannot find myself disagreeing with your actions. Some of those officials are insufferable in meetings."

Oh. "Y-Yeah," Lestrade stammered. "It's good seein' ya again, Mycroft," he noted. Yeah, what a good greeting that was. But Mycroft just kept the smirk on his face.

"The same for you, Detective Inspector. I must say, I do hope the jacket fits you well," Lestrade looked down at the box. He wouldn't doubt it, seeing as how Mycroft saw everything and knew almost everything there was about everyone and everything. "I always see you outside when it is dreary and cold, and you seem to always forget a jacket at your home. No wonder you always have to go to the convenient store for medicine," Lestrade shivered. Sometimes, Mycroft gave him the creeps. "But rest assured, the jacket should keep you warm during your cases."

"Yeah, thanks. I've been meaning to get a jacket for a while now," he smiled. Mycroft smiled back. "I-I hope you're not too offended by the umbrella. It's something that came up at the Yard."

Mycroft looked down at the umbrella. "It's rather clever, I must say. I shan't be too offended by something like this. My secretary might find it rather amusing," and Lestrade took a quick glance around. Speaking of his secretary, she wasn't near Mycroft. He wondered if she got the night off, the poor girl. He only saw her once in his office, when Mycroft came around with no warning, but she looked exhausted. "I'll have to be weary of who has possession of this umbrella from time to time."

Did—Did Mycroft just make a joke? That wasn't possible, right? He never heard the Government tell such a joke before. Lestrade thought about not laughing, but it seemed appropriate enough. Besides, even a small chuckle came from the tall man. He bent down to the ground to put his card back in the box. "Well, like I said, you can keep all your secrets under one roof. Keep them safe, ya know?" When he rose again, he noticed Mycroft closer than before. Huh. He then noticed the umbrella was open, above the two of them. What—

"I shall do my best to keep my secrets safe," he heard Mycroft whisper. The gaze bore into Lestrade's eyes, and the voice made everything seem so—unimportant. What was he thinking about before this little exchange? He didn't even know. He couldn't tell you.

But Lestrade stared at him, wondering what he meant by that. And before he could ask a simple question, Mycroft turned to leave. Lestrade felt his heart quicken a bit—was his life in danger? Mycroft turned his head to Lestrade once more. "I do hope you keep warm, Detective Inspector. I'd hate to hear you get ill once more, especially during this time of the season. Merry Christmas," And off he went.

Lestrade bent down to grab his box, but he didn't stray away from Mycroft walking down the street. He didn't know where he was going, but Lestrade just looked down at the box. The jacket was the right size, seemed large enough, and looked like it would keep someone warm in the wintertime. He looked back to Mycroft, who was still under the umbrella. He just shook his head in amazement and turned the other way, walking home from the hotel.

If you were to tell Lestrade that Mycroft still had the same umbrella by his side, he'd just smirk and call Mycroft a "cheeky bastard" for keeping the stupid thing. He wouldn't be surprised, though. You'd ask why, and Lestrade would only shrug, as if keeping something from you.

If you were to tell Mycroft about Lestrade keeping the jacket all this time, he'd just smile. There'd be no surprise on his face, and he'd remark the gesture as something good. But he'd just act smug under his umbrella, looking at something inside, and simply walk away. You'd ask if that means anything, but Mycroft would just turn his head to look at you and keep that smile on his face.

Some things are better left unsaid after all.


End file.
